Doesn't it Make You Feel Better, Now?

Last night I wrote about wishing I could know what was coming, about wanting to see what would happen next. Careful what you wish for.

It's kinda hard to pin down exactly what the problem is, you know? Sometimes everything is just the problem.

I guess the best way to put it is; imagine someone stepping on ants. Like, thousands and thousands of them, the red ones, as they come pouring out of the ground, this person just keeps crushing them under their shoes. And the more and the more that come, the more and the more that die. Its just so hot outside. And the bottoms of these shoes are just fucking caked with dead and dying ants. And the ones that are only half crushed slowly drag themselves along, their broken legs and spilled guts like fucking streamers behind them. And there is no beginning, and there is no ending, and you get too uncomfortable to fucking imagine anymore.

I fucking hate moving.